Monday, December 9, 2013

Monday, July 8, 2013

(The example in this post is based on pure assumption. I did not talk to the man nor did I trail him to his destination to get more facts. Despite my lack of validity about the example there are many people who live just as I describe. This man represents the silent and unseen segment of society whatever his case may actually be.) The first time I heard the axiom “working poor” was during the groundbreaking Presidential bid by Rev. Jesse Jackson in the late ‘80’s. He talked about how the plight of the working poor was the shame of America that supposedly rewards hard work a livable wage. I always found the term working poor to be an oxymoron. It never occurred to me at the time that folks could be employed and still poor, almost living as if they had no income at all. What is the definition of the working poor? The working poor are those folks that have spent at least half the year in the U.S. labor force but they earn a yearly wage that is below the poverty level. They barely live off the money they earn and often they have to resort to other ways of getting food or resources to survive. Some occupations of the working poor are hotel maids, non-professional hospital workers, farmers, and many other positions in the service sector of the labor market. The irony is that many of the working poor are employed at jobs they themselves could not afford to patron. For instance, a hospital worker probably could not afford to have health insurance, let alone see doctors themselves. This past Sunday night I decided to grab something to eat from Kroger. While driving through the lot I noticed a man digging in the garbage bin behind Chase bank. I know Chase does not put sensitive records or receipts in the dumpster so I knew he must have been looking for something else.

I pulled over and watched him to see what he was getting out of the dumpster. He was mining for aluminum cans. He found a few cans and some other items that I could not make out. What I am sure of is that he found a can of something in the dumpster and proceeded to drink the contents. I assumed this guy was homeless. But then as I continued to watch him, I noticed that he had on a white dress shirt and what looked like an employee tag or key card on a string around his neck. I deduced that he was not homeless but he was employed and probably lived in a less than modest residence. I continued to watch him. When he finished placing his findings in a plastic grocery bag he picked up a small suitcase laying on the ground and placed it in a shopping cart along with his bag of “goodies”. After seeing the small suitcase I thought, “Maybe he is homeless after all”. After loading up his basket he wheeled his items through the lot at Kroger. How sadly ironic it is that he was looking for cans to earn money behind the branch of one of the most powerful banks in the world. I am guessing he had no money in Chase and that he could not afford any food from Kroger.

Headed to Kroger while Chase is in my side rear mirror. Symbolism at its best.

He wheeled his things to Kroger and sat down outside in one of the seats available for the public. I went inside Kroger to get what I wanted and as I was coming out I looked to my left only see a beat up taxi stopping to pick the man up. He put his stuff in the back seat of the car and then got in the front seat of the taxi. I think he knew the driver. The taxi light was not on so I figured it was not in service. They pulled off to wherever his destination was. I felt sorry for this man. Clearly he was not able to go inside Kroger and get food and use a debit card to pay for it like I did. There are millions of these folks (an estimated 10.4 million as of 2011) who work but have to make ends meet using what we throw away. We ignore these folks. I know I take my own financial status for granted. I’m by no means well off but I can get by without digging in the garbage for something to sell or something to drink or something to eat. I often wonder if the politicians in city hall, the state houses, and in Washington really care about these people who provide us with services they themselves can’t afford use. I wonder if people like this man are concerned about what the news anoints as the hot topic of the day like the IRS scandal, the Snowden saga of leaking sensitive surveillance operations, or the uprising in Egypt. Even more so I wonder if they have enough energy to even care about those things as they struggle to survive in a country of riches that ignores them. I am thankful that I have the “luxury” to turn my attention to the news on MSNBC, CNN and big three networks instead of worrying about how I will eat this week or next.

Its scenes like these that make me wonder how we can ever say with a straight face that we are a Christian nation. In II Thessalonians 3 the Bible it says that if a [person] does not work they don’t eat. Unfortunately, today a person can work and still not eat.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

I started this blog post in August of 2012 right after the suicide of pro football player
O.J. Murdock. I had every intention of completing the post back then but I
found it too emotionally wrenching to complete. Finishing the post would require
me to stir up some emotions and thoughts that I would rather have
remained dormant. But I had to wake up those feelings in order to say what I wanted to say in the piece.
It was, and still is, a painful subject for me. Its now May 2013. It’s been nine
months since August 2012 so I need to go ahead and birth this message. Around this time five years ago my depression almost
forced me to commit suicide.

From The Beginning

I recall having
cyclical bouts of feeling ‘blue’ or feeling anxiety for much of my youth but I never
associated those cycles with depression until late in my life. The sources of my
depression were probably sown years ago during my adolescence. I had an
emotionally challenging childhood. I rarely felt loved: I am not saying my
parents did not love me. But I did not feel loved. I did not receive the
support or encouragement that I wanted, particularly from my father who I
looked up to. My parents loved me the way they thought I should be loved rather
than the way I needed to be loved. In addition I am a preacher’s kid, which came with its
own set of pressures expectations. My
father was the center of attention and he reveled in it. He commanded attention
at all times. Early on I got the clear message that I was to be seen and not
heard. Sometimes not even seen. I grew up in a very strict home. I was never
allowed to celebrate holidays, never had a birthday party, could not go to the
movies, and banned from listening to secular music. I had to read the Bible
aloud at church. There was no such thing
as freedom or open expression in my household.

When I wanted to play
sports in high school I had to literally beg my parents to play. They allowed
me to play but never came to see me perform. At the time I was not bothered by
their absence. Or so I thought. Later on I discovered that it was pretty
hurtful to look up in the stands and not see my parents or any relatives cheering
me on while my teammates had their parents, family and friends supporting them.
Many times my teammates and coaches asked me if my family was at a game. I
would lie and make up some excuse as to why they weren’t there. I never asked
my parents why they never came to see me play because I was afraid of the
answer I may get. So I just suppressed my feelings and suffered in silence.

I spent most of my
time with my father even though I never felt much love from him particularly as
I got older. He was cold, distant and very judgmental. Sometimes he would shame
me from the pulpit when I became fodder for one of his sermons. His ‘love
language’ was to give me things and money rather than encouragement, affection
and time. But even the things were
gradually cut off as I grew to my teen years. He would promise me something but and then renege. He would either have an excuse or would conveniently forget
what he promised. Since I thought he loved me because of the things he gave me
its possible I may have equated him not following through with what he promised
as a signal that he no longer loved me.

As a teenager my
father would often refer to me as “the boy” rather than by my name. I hated that.
Although I did catch on at the time, its now clear that it was another way for
him to see me as something rather
than someone. Even though I never wanted for anything, I
would have exchanged all of it for his validation, his time, his attention and
feeling genuinely loved. Sadly, at many points in my life I duplicated the
frigid, distant relationship between my father and I in my relationships and
connections with other people.

Let me be clear. I
really believe my parents raised me the best way they knew how. Had they known
I was not really a happy child, and that unhappiness would follow me into
adulthood I genuinely believe they would have done some things differently. Had
they known better, I believe they would have done better. They were great providers and they ‘spoiled
me’. Materially, I had almost everything I wanted. I never wanted for anything
except love, validation, and a sense of being wanted.

When I was young
adult I would segregate myself. I did not have very many friends except for the
one or two from the neighborhood that I grew up with. But I was still
guarded with them. I really did not cultivate any friendships and I usually
kept people at a distance no matter how they tried to get close to me. I would have labeled myself an isolationist:
someone who kept to myself and avoided meaningful relationships with
others. I will never forget when I was
around 20 years old that a friend named Warren drove by one day to pick me up
so that we could hang out on a Saturday evening. I really liked Warren because
he was the opposite of me. He was effortlessly gregarious, had many friends,
very assertive and enjoyed life. As I
recall the day he came to pick me up I was my typical distant self with him. I
think he got fed up with me and decided to speak from his heart. I remember him
saying to me, “Lee, you are going to have a hard time in life because you don’t
need anybody. You don’t let anybody in.” When he told me that I remember feeling
a deep sadness. The sadness stemmed from me knowing he was right. As usual, my
response was, “okay”. That made him angry and he ended our evening out by dropping
off back at home. Our relationship was never the same after that night.
Eventually we disconnected, which to this day regret. He wanted to be a part of
my life but I would not let him. I treated
him just as icy and aloof as if he were a stranger. Some of that of course stemmed from my poor self-esteem.
I was afraid that if I got close to anyone or let anyone in they would feel the
same way I did about myself. And I did not like myself at all.

Sometimes people
misinterpreted my coldness as me being snobbish, or ‘bougie’, or elitist. More than a few times word got back to me
about what was being said about me when I was not around. People really thought
I was trying to be better than them when in reality I was scared of them. I
wanted to connect but I was scared. I wanted to be more like Warren, someone
who easily made friends and was popular with folks. I was afraid that if I let
myself go and try to make friends that I would be successful. That did not fit
the paradigm in. It’s
called the fear of success. Making
friends meant I would be liked by people, validated by people and even scarier,
I would have to show up emotionally in a way that was very different than what
I was used to. I would have open up and be vulnerable and that seemed abnormal
to me.

The Challenge of the Church

Then I discovered in my teen years that I was attracted to the same gender. In the African
American church being gay is perhaps the worse thing a person could be. Gay
bashing by black preachers was commonplace. Gay bashing is still occurring today
but it’s not as prevalent as it once was. All a preacher had to say was, “God
made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve” and the congregation would respond with a self-righteous ‘Amen!’ or “Preach it!”. My father never did much gay bashing in his
sermons but homosexuality was certainly on his extensive list of sins that would
send you to hell. He used the term
“sissy” and “bull dagger” to refer to gays and lesbians on the occasions when he did rebuke
us from the pulpit. The church taught the only way I could be spared damnation was
to either pray to be delivered from these ‘urges’ or find someone to cast
that demon out of you. So I got the
message loud and clear that I had to hate myself because I was an abomination. I
was taught that an all-loving God hated me because I was attracted to the same
gender. I felt I was not worthy of God’s love, or anyone’s love for that
matter, including the love I should’ve had for myself. The church justified
what I already felt; that I did not deserve to be happy because I am defective.

Besides the
condemnation of my sexuality I think the Black charismatic church compounded my
depression because they taught that my suffering was because of sin in my life.
Although attitudes are slowly changing now, the church frowned on folks who
said they were depressed. I was taught that if you suffering from depression or
any sickness it is because of sin, a demon or a lack of faith. In order to rationalize
that theology the church had to teach that God was nearly always angry. They
taught that God was vengeful and watched from above with a scorecard to mark
down your transgressions and mete out the appropriate punishment. Depression
was simply punishment from God for something the person did. What was missing from the church was a strong
understanding of the disease of depression and the striking absence of empathy.
The church-at-large I grew up in eagerly taught about the wrath of God but
never imparted much about the compassion of God. Some of that was from
ignorance of the Bible and some was from self-righteousness. Whatever the case,
love and compassion wasn’t practiced very much.

Even those churches
or pastors that were more enlightened about the challenges of human life were
at a loss to properly respond to those with mental health issues. By my mid
20’s I had left the dogmatic “Holiness or Hell” churches and joined a church
that I thought was more Christ-centered. It was a mega-church (7,000-plus members
when I joined), which was new to me since I never belonged to a church with
more than 200 worshippers. The pastor was a dynamic teacher and preacher (he
still is). But I distinctly remember in 2001 or 2002 going to this pastor and telling him I needed prayer and guidance because I don’t like my life. I told him I am unhappy and I don’t ever see
me being happy. He responded with cheery anecdotes and philosophical musings. He
undoubtedly thought his response was helpful but it was typical
church-speak. That is what pastors do
who are not trained to effectively respond to people who are suffering from
depression or other mental health challenges.
He never once asked me why I felt the way I did or if I thought about
seeing a mental health professional. He reminded me of my father because he was another pastor that did not care about me. I left church that day feeling worse than I
did when I came because I reached out for help and I did not get it. Instead I
got some words that probably made him feel better. I really don’t blame him for his response. He
is not a psychologist or a therapist so I should not have expected him to give
me anything that would help shake my doldrums. In fact, it has been my
experience that many preachers and pastors themselves are secretly depressed or
have their own mental health challenges.

But even if religious
doctrine does not stop people from seeking help the notion that only white
people go to psychiatrists and therapists often does. I have always heard people say that black people don’t need to “go lay on no couch”. As if somehow being black in America made us
immune from the need to seek help since our ancestors did not “go crazy” when
they faced the brutality of slavery, racism, lynching, and Jim Crow. But it is
precisely that brutal past they makes us more of a candidate for mental health
intervention than less of one. Instead, we invented a musical genre that
celebrates misery named the blues. We are supposed to sing about our ‘blues’,
not seek help for it even though the trauma from the past is still leaking down from
generation to generation today.

Since the church did
not help I concocted my own remedy. I just decided to pray harder, throw myself
into my job, and get involved in church activities including singing in the choir,
on praise teams, and in a local community choir. It’s ironic that I was
anointed to sing to people about the goodness of God and yet I did not feel any
of that same goodness myself.

My Answer Lies in the Big City

I often traveled to bigger
cities to get some temporary thrills that made me feel much better about life
and myself. I hated to return home
because I would experience anxiety and deep sadness because it meant my
out-of-town ‘high’ was going to wear off and I would return to my unhappy
existence. But one day I got an idea. I figured that since I came alive in big
cities why not move to one so that I can stay alive. My expectations were that if I
relocated to a bigger city I would have a more connected and exciting life. So
I decided to move to Atlanta, Georgia in the fall of 2006. I always had a good
time in Atlanta so I thought it would be a great place to relocate.It also helped that the Atlanta metro area
was teeming with other Black gays who I assumed I could connect with and feel a
sense of community. Essentially, I thought I could be ‘healed’ in Hot’lanta.

After taking several
weeks to get settled in Atlanta I decided to try my hand at dating. I started
dating someone that I had known prior to moving to Atlanta. We had a mutual
attraction to each other so we decided to give it a go. I thought things were
going along great. But then one day in the summer of 2007 I called him and he
did not return my call like he usually did. I called again: no response. I
texted him: no response. I sent him instant messages but he never responded. In
effect, he disappeared. I went by his home to try to find him and either he did
not answer the door or he was not there. I spent a week trying to reach out to him but
to no avail. The fact of the matter is
that he kicked me to the curb and I did not know why. But I felt somehow
responsible for his disappearance. Yes
it hurt and yes I was disappointed but I figured I deserved it for whatever I
did.

After a few weeks of
brooding I started dating again but without much success. Then in early 2008
the guy who disappeared in 2007 had resurfaced. He was back on the scene. He apologized
for disappearing. The reason he said he stopped talking to me is because he was
going through some things and he did not know how to tell me. He still never
told me what those things were and I never asked. I was not completely sold on his excuse but
given how low my self-esteem was, he could have told me that aliens abducted
him and I would have partly bought into it. I still liked the guy so I agreed to start dating
him again. It was going along smoothly till his birthday rolled around in
April.

He and I went out and
celebrated his birthday. He seemed to enjoy the night we spent celebrating. I
was happy because I thought he was happy. But the very next day I called him
and left a voice mail message. He did not return my call. I texted him: no response. I instant messaged
him: no response. This again went on for
a week. He totally disappeared a second time. I felt like the sucker of the
world. My self-esteem hit rock bottom. I
thought I was being rejected again because of something I did or did not do. I
was also angry. Angry that he did not tell me why he rejected me a second time
(or the first time for that matter). I guess I was naïve to think that things
would be different with him this time than it was the first time.

After his “second
going” my depression became more prevalent. His leaving a second time triggered
something in me that I had never felt before. It unleashed such extreme
unhappiness that I did not want to get out of bed. I felt alone, I felt
unloved, and I felt unwanted. I could not concentrate at work. I had trouble
sleeping. I started believing that maybe
I am not supposed to be happy. There is
a passage in the Bible that says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life.” I was feeling that surely misery and pain shall
follow me all the days of my life.

One morning I woke up
from a night of erratic sleep I started assessing how my life had changed or
not changed since relocating. I thought
about how I had no close friends in Atlanta, about how my dating life was dead,
and I didn’t feel the fabulous sense of community I thought I was going to feel
when I moved to Atlanta. If anything I felt like an outcast. I quickly got
angry and decided that I needed to make some changes. The changes were going to
be comprehensive, drastic and sudden. But the changes came with an ultimatum.
Either these changes better work or I was going to end my life. It really had
become a do or die situation for me. Either I was going to start winning in my
personal and professional life or I was going back to home to my family in a
coffin. I was serious.

Just One Card

Shortly after I making
myself that promise I was rummaging through my wallet looking for
something when I came across the card of
a therapist one of my friends in Atlanta had given me about three years
earlier. I was a frequent visitor to Atlanta
before I moved there. One weekend I came to Atlanta and I stayed with this particular
friend. During the course of my stay he shared with me that he was seeing a
therapist. For some reason he gave me his therapist’s card. I thought it was
odd since I did not live in Atlanta but I thanked him and put it in my wallet.
I had no intention of seeing a therapist in Atlanta or back in my hometown or
anywhere else. I believed that therapists were for people that did not believe
in God. True Christians did not need the help of a therapist. And yes, black
people did not go “lay on the couch”. I
thought anyone who needed a therapist was probably not mentally stable and bordered
on crazy. But I never felt that my friend was unstable or bordering on crazy;
he seemed normal to me. In fact, him sharing his struggle with me and the steps
he was taking to get better probably had more of an impact on me than I
realized at the time.

The card remained in
my wallet for at least three years despite my negative view of mental health
specialists. After comming across the card in my wallet I thought it might be a
good idea to get a little help with the changes I was making. I thought perhaps
it would be a good idea to run my thoughts by someone who could tell me whether
I was on the right track or not. Once
again the teachings of the church and the very real stigma in the black
community around seeking the aid of mental health professionals throttled me
from immediately picking up the phone and making that call. I laid the card down on my desk and it sat
there for a couple of weeks. But deep down I knew that if I wanted to live I
had to get over my shame and fear give the man a call. I had to have enough
faith in my future to get some help. I
finally called and set up an appointment.

When I went to
initial appointment the therapist asked what prompted me to see him. I talked
about the guy disappearing on me twice, about how alone I feel, and how
disappointed I am with my life in Atlanta so far. He asked for details about my
parents and my childhood. He also asked how I typically felt each day and what
I thought about on a daily basis. At the end of my assessment he wrote a few
notes on the paper attached to his clipboard and then looked up at me and said,
“You’re depressed”. I said yes I do feel unhappy at times but not all the time.
He said, “No, you are clinically
depressed.” That hit me like a ton of bricks. I came in expecting to be given
some advice on how to move forward and I wind up being diagnosed as
depressed. I was embarrassed. I was
ashamed. I remember thinking, “how in the hell did my life devolve to the point
where I’m now clinically diagnosed with depressed”? Him telling me I am
depressed made me more depressed. He
said that if I were willing that he would start seeing me regularly to treat my
depression. I agreed to try it. After all, I thought, what do I have to lose
except my life? I had reached one of the lowest points in my life and to not
tackle this depression meant certain death.

After a few visits
with the therapist I started to feel better. I think I felt better because for
the first time in my adult life I was free to say anything I wanted and not
feel scared that I would have to pay a price for doing so. I opened up and
spoke freely with no filter. It felt liberating to say what was really on my
mind and not feel judged by the other person. During those sessions I took off
the mask that I had spent most of my life constructing. I may have felt better
but that did not mean I was getting better.

I regularly attended sessions
with my therapist. But I think I had deluded myself into thinking I was getting
better. What made it clear that I was not getting better was when my birthday rolled around in February 2009. I have
to say that it was perhaps the loneliest birthday I ever had. I had no one to
go out and celebrate with me. I decided to go out to eat because my parents
encouraged me to treat myself to dinner. While at the restaurant I really did
not enjoy the meal because I was full of anger because I was alone. On my way
home from the restaurant I stopped at Whole Foods and got a bottle of champagne
and a slice of cake. I came home and ate
the cake and drank the entire bottle of champagne that night. I woke up the next
day and even more enraged. I said that this couldn’t happen again. I really am
going to end my life if it’s always going to be this dreadful. I started thinking
that all those sessions with the therapist was a waste of time and money because
I was as miserable as I ever had been. Maybe I had unrealistic expectations that my
life would to improve rather quickly after seeing the therapist. Maybe I thought my depression was like any
other illness; I would be cured after a few days of treatment. Instead, I felt like I was sinking lower into a
cold, dark, deep well with no hope of catching the rope to get out. I felt
trapped with only one way out – ending my life.

I had a session that
same week of my birthday with the therapist and I told him that I had another birthday and it
was the worst. By that time my anger had been replaced by sadness. I still
occasionally got angry when I was by myself to avoid crying. I told him that our sessions were not working
and were a waste of his and my time. Nothing was changing and I was tired of
trying. I told him I set a date to end it all and I was determined to follow
through with it. I had resolved that by my next birthday things had better
drastically change or that would be my last birthday on earth. I promised to
not live one day past my birthday if nothing changed. I wanted to end my life
on my birthday because my oldest sister died on her birthday. I wanted my
family to remember my birthday the same way they remember her’s. I had images of my mother coming to visit my grave
on my birthday just like she does on my sister’s birthday. I was willing to die
just so my parents would finally show how much they cared for me.

After I told the therapist
that I was serious about my do or die ultimatum he agreed that the sessions
were not as affective as they needed to be. He said since I’d moved from
thinking about suicide to setting a concrete date that we needed to take
drastic action. And that drastic action was to be on anti-depressants. I
immediately felt my insides sink. I used to judge people who took
anti-depressants and here I am now being told I need them. At first I refused to get medication but then
after praying and asking God about what I should do, I practiced my faith and
agreed to try the medication.

I got the pills and
started taking them. After a week or two I felt different. Maybe not better,
but different. I stopped thinking about suicide. I took that off the table as
an option. I was still ashamed that I had to take medication, though. I did not
tell my family. To this day they don’t know. I did not tell anyone at my church, especially my pastor, even though I am an
active part of the ministry. I still fear the judgmental posture the church can take about my illness. In many ways it was easier to disclose my
sexuality than to disclose me taking anti-depressants. I did tell three people about me taking medication for my
depression. And they proved to me why I consider them my closest friends.

Unfortunately, none
of them live in Atlanta so I had to phone them individually. I called each of them and told them that I was
seeing therapist. I shared that bit of
news first to assess their reaction. Each of them expressed support and said
that was probably a good thing that I was getting some help sorting things out.
Then I told them that I am on anti-depressants. Mysteriously, each one of them paused
after I told them that. The pause scared me. Then they spoke. One said he could
relate because at one time in his life he had to take anti-depressants. I was surprised.
He had never told me that. I never knew
he had battled depression because he has always been cheerful and so
self-assured since we first met in college. Another one said there is nothing
wrong with taking medicine to get better. He was happy I was taking that step.
The last one said he has taken anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication at
certain points in his life so he was there to support me. All three told me how much they love me and
hoped that I get better. Their reaction alone
made me feel better. I was relieved that they did not scold me for seeking help
and taking medication. They helped me realize that while I thought I was being weak
by seeking help, a sign of strength is recognizing that you need help and
setting out to get it. That’s not weakness, that’s wisdom.

Even though I got the
support and love of my closest pals I was still punishing myself for having to
take medication for depression. Then one day I was having a talk with a friend
in New York City that I don’t consistently dialogue with but we always connect
in a very rich way when we do talk. At some point during the conversation I had
a moment of transparency and told him I was taking ant-depressants and I was
ashamed about it. He listened and then gave me a response that shifted my
entire thinking about the medication. He said think of the medication as your
own personal stimulus package (using government spending as a metaphor). It is
designed to kick-start you into the right direction; to make you more
productive so that your crisis will end. That response blew my mind. I
immediately went from seeing the medication as a deficiency to viewing it as an
asset. The pills were a tool for getting me out of my well and back on solid
ground. Not only did the medication pull
me out of my well, it also pulled me back from a grave that I was sure to put
myself in.

I used to self-righteously
say that I would never commit suicide. I
was one of the ones who always looked down on those who attempted suicide. But
now I know better having gone through my own battle with depression. Most of us do
not know what would trigger us to fall into potentially lethal depression. I
certainly did not know mine till it happened. I thought people who attempted
suicide were weak people who were trying to take the easy way out. I was wrong.
Suicide is essentially an act of aggression. The sadness and pain is what we
are violently trying to get rid of. Its
not a cop out, it’s just a frantic attempt to stop the emotional torment. A pain
that is so weighty that a person would do anything to end the agony. When a
person reaches this point they see death as the only sure-fire way to stop the
hurting.

Most folks are
surprised when they hear of someone they know committing suicide because they most
likely thought the person was fine. The
person who’s made up their minds to end their life often appears content and
even happy. They have a peace of mind that stems from knowing that their suffering
will end shortly. I had a certain amount of comfort in knowing that my life was
headed to a tipping point. I’m almost
positive that anyone who knew me or saw my ‘public face’ in 2007-2008 would
never have guessed that I was on the brink of suicide. No one knew because I
hid it. In fact, to this day outside of my therapist and the medical doctor who
prescribed the medication no one else knows that I have been suicidal. This post will obviously change that.I’m taking a risk by being
this vulnerable and disclosing something so painful and something that I have
worked overtime to hide. I concede that
I am afraid of the reaction of friends who really know me. I am scared they
will stop liking me and sever from me.
But those of us who struggle with depression or who were on the brink of
suicide need to come out of the closet. If my story can save a life then I will
suffer whatever ridicule or judgment people may hurl at me for sharing my
truth.

Who would have
thought that a card that given to me three years earlier would save my life? I know if my friend had not given me that card
to keep in my wallet I would not have sought help. And I would not be here writing
this post. I would have been absent from the body five years ago. Clearly,
God’s universe knew in 2005 that I would need that card in 2008. If depression and thoughts of suicide can
happen to me then it can happen to anyone. Suicide rates are skyrocketing,
particularly in the African American community regardless of gender, age and
sexuality. But there is help available if folks have the courage and faith to
seek it. Even if my story does not save a life I hope it at least help start a dialogue
in the African American community and the Black church around the perilous shame
attached to those who are thinking about getting help from mental health experts.
I can’t help but wonder if the stigma
prevented Kansas City Chief linebacker Jevon Belcher from seeking help before killing his girlfriend and then taking his own life. Or maybe someone could have passed a card to the
22-year-old Seattle-based rapper Freddy E before he decided to take his life. Or would
Chris Lighty have still been alive if he had gotten proper intervention.

There are a number of
men and women in our community who are suffering in silence who could use a card
in their wallet or purse right now. If
you are someone who may not feel just right, seek some help. If someone wants
to attack you for getting help, at least you will be alive to hear the
foolishness they say.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

This past weekend the National Collegiate Athletic
Association (NCAA) Final Four was held in Atlanta. The four surviving teams in
the bracket-busting Division 1 basketball tournament gathered for the semifinals
and championship game at the Georgia Dome before 75,000 howling fans. In
addition to the attendees, countless millions watched on television, listened
by radio, or tuned in via simulcast on the Internet. Sunday night I went down to
Centennial Olympic Park to enjoy the Final Four festivities that included a series
of free open-air concerts featuring top name acts. Before crossing the street
to enter Centennial Olympic Park I stopped on a street corner and stepped up on
a secondary curb that divided the parking lot from the sidewalk to survey the
scene. I was finally a seven-footer. Thousands of people were bustling about
enjoying the atmosphere. I put on my sociology thinking cap on and decided dissect
what was going on. I saw extra police
who were part of the 800 city and county officers working overtime. Specialty food trucks
were sprinkled about the area. Merchandise vendors were on
practically every street corner. The few local restaurants
in the vicinity were packed. I looked up to see the top of the Westin Hotel and
thought about how many hotels downtown were sold out, with the cheapest room
reportedly costing a stiff $300 a night. I noticed several out of town cars and
trucks stuck in the predictably horrible traffic: undoubtedly some of them were
rental cars. I saw posters highlighting musical artists like Zac Brown Band,
Sting, The Dave Matthews Band and Flo-Rida – about 12 total for the weekend – that
were performing for free during the weekend. Then it dawned on me. Folks were getting paid. Everyone who was
involved with putting on the Final Four by providing services or entertainment
or merchandise to the fans were all turning a coin. The ultimate absurdity is
that the only people who did not get a slice of this “Peach Pie” are the ones
responsible for all this – the athletes. The players do not see one single dime.
Why? Because according to the NCAA, college basketball players are amateurs, meaning,
they can’t be paid for their services or talent. That’s right. These amateurs
are generating hundreds of millions of dollars - probably closer to billions - for everyone
involved but can’t have any of it for themselves. If I did not know better I would think the
Robber Barons of 19th century were still around under the guise of
the NCAA.

Think about whom else is getting paid during Final Four
weekend. Georgia Power got paid because of all the electricity used by the
Dome, the Georgia World Congress Center and Centennial Park. Airlines, trains,
cabs, buses and rental car companies all made money from the weekend. Even the
gas stations saw some extra green by supplying local fans and out-of-town
devotees with fuel. The local malls, department stores, grocery stores and
liquor stores saw an increase in business mainly from visitors in town for the
weekend. The City of Atlanta got a huge economic boost (a $70 million kick
according to Forbes Magazine). While
I enjoyed the Final Four immensely I could not help but wonder how the players
on Wichita State, Syracuse, Michigan and Louisville felt when they see all these
dollars being generated and they can’t have $1 of it for themselves. To me thats the real “March Madness”.

Everyone around
the college game is making loot. Usually the highest paid state employee is either the football or
the basketball coach. Millions are dolled out to coaches of these
supposed amateur players (University of Louisville’s head basketball coach Rick
Pitino, whose team won the National Title, earns $6.7 million per year). The
coach’s employment is dependent on the performance of the college athlete. CBS
and Turner Sports are in the second year of a 14-year contract with the NCAA to
broadcast “March Madness” tournament games for a whopping $10.8 billion. (The yearly payment from the contract
reportedly represents up to 90% of the NCAA’s total revenue per year.) Sports
broadcast personalities on ESPN, CBS and TNT are paid handsomely to provide predictions,
commentary, and play-by-play analysis. The college athlete gets nothing but
adoration and memories but no dough.

I used to argue that college athletes are already getting
paid with free college tuition, which includes room and board and meals. But my opinion has been evolving over the past
few years. After the Final Four weekend my thinking completed its shift. Given
the amount of money floating around that weekend and the fact that coaches got
bonuses for taking their teams to the Final Four (Wichita State’s coach Greg
Marshall got a $136,000 bonus; Louisville’s coach Rick Pitino got a total haul
of $325,000 in Final Four bonus money plus an additional $2.7 million retention
bonus), I don’t understand why the athletes who are truthfully responsible for ‘making it rain’ can’t be given a monthly
stipend. If anything, it’s the players that are taking the coaches to the Final Four. Further, the NCAA has a “basketball fund” of nearly $200 million used to
reward schools for their post-season success. And the schools can use that
money any way they see fit. When the price of a ticket to Final Four games rivals
the costs of Super Bowl tickets then college sports is already a pro league.
The average price of a semifinal ticket at this year’s Final Four averaged a
record-shattering $1,190 each. The most
expensive ticket to championship game was $4,199. They are charging
professional sports prices to watch supposedly amateur athletes. I agree with
former Duke standout and current ESPN analyst Jay Bilas. He says the only thing
amateur about college sports is the NCAA leadership.

I have heard the arguments against giving college athletes a
stipend or payment for play. A couple of days after the Final Four weekend I heard
a debate about this very issue on a local sports radio show. Callers against
the idea of giving athletes money used justifications like the athletes find a
way to get tattoos so they must have money (this has nothing to do with paying
them or not; if anything it reeks of racism since most revenue generating
athletes are black and most have tattoos). Or that they essentially need to
suffer like they did when they went to college – not even thinking that the
athletes are not like normal students who can get jobs. The NCAA bars student athletes from having a
job because it says the athletes ‘s job is to compete for their school. I
suspect if some of these callers were to trade places with these athletes and
see all the millions being made by coaches and campuses they would feel
different. Then others say that college athletes are already getting paid with
free tuition, room and food and they come out with no debt. That is actually
not the case with most athletes. They still wind up taking out student loans
because they have no other means to earn money. They have to borrow it. The
athletes would make ridiculously more money than a four-year scholarship, room,
board and food if they were given a fair share of the profits instead of free
schooling.

When I was in college at Oregon I was given a scholarship
(tuition remission) and a stipend for working as a TA for 20 hours a week. According
in NCAA rules student athletes are not supposed to practice more than 20 hours
a week. The university I attended gave me tuition and a stipend because they
had a vested interest in my success, just as the schools, the NCAA, television networks,
athletic gear companies and other sponsors have a vested interest in the
success of the athletes. The stipend did not make me rich, just as a stipend
would not make student-athletes rich.

An example of how unfair college athletics is and how every
ounce of money is made off the sweat and blood of athletes is the gruesome injury suffered by
the University of Louisville’s Kevin Ware in the Midwest Regional Final. If you
want to get the whole story of what happened you can read it here. I was flabbergasted when I learned that Adidas
and the University of Louisville peddled t-shirts to “honor” the incapacitated
Ware. Adidas has a contract with the University of Louisville to supply
uniforms, shoes, and other athletic gear (the coach and school gets paid by
Adidas for letting them use their athletes to ‘advertise’ their wares). Adidas made special
t-shirts bearing Kevin Ware’s name and number and sold them for profit. Kevin
Ware does not get a dime. Not one nickel. Not one cent. Probably not even a
freebie from Adidas because it’s against NCAA rules for players to accept gifts.
To be fair, other manufacturers made Kevin Ware t-shirts and sold them for revenue,
too. The young man suffered a horrific bone-break trying to win a game for his
school. Adidas and the University pounced on this awful injury and found a
way to cash in on this catastrophe. Eventually Adidas was shamed into removing
the shirt from its website and merchandise racks after the media shed light on
how they were exploiting the player. Even the pain, tragedy and trauma suffered
by Ware had a price tag. Everything is
for sale when it comes to college athletics.

Thankfully someone is challenging the NCAA. Former UCLA
basketball standout Ed O’Bannon is the lead plaintiff in a class action lawsuit
against the NCAA currently being litigated in federal court. Among the
plaintiffs are NBA legends Oscar Robertson and Bill Russell who were superb
college athletes, along with several former football players and other
athletes. The NCAA requires all competitors
– regardless of the sport – to sign a waiver that essentially prevents the athlete
from receiving compensation from the use of their own name or likeness that references
their college-playing career. This
waiver is enforced while the student is in college and when their playing
career is over. The athlete can never make money because the NCAA owns their
college careers. O’Bannon says this is
unfair and is suing the NCAA for selling his UCLA likeness to EA Sports for a
video game. O’Bannon did not receive a dime.
Probably not even a free game. What the NCAA is doing, according to the plaintiffs,
is violating the Sherman Antitrust Act of 1890. The Sherman Antitrust Act prohibits price fixing, which means that
a business or a person who labors should be paid what they deserve or what is
reasonably fair. Coincidently, the Act was partly aimed at reigning in the
Robber Barons who used any measure they could conjure up to crush workers and
competition to maximize profits. The
case is now before a federal judge and the NCAA is worried that a ruling
against them will release a floodgate of demands for monies and pave the way
for athletes to be paid. The NCAA is terrified that they will have to play by
the same rules any other multibillion-dollar business has to follow.

Jon Stewarts recently spoofed the ubsurdity of NCAA rules against athletes using their own names to earn money.

If the athlete is the product being sold, why aren’t the
athletes getting a taste of the profits? Its interesting that many
conservatives call President Obama a socialist when the NCAA rules prohibits 'working' athletes from earning a wage. That smacks of
socialism and maybe slavery. After all, slaves were given free room and board and food, too. How any self-proclaimed capitalist thinks this system is
fair baffles me.

The only consequence of being labeled an amateur is that you
cannot get paid for your athletic performances. That is it. That’s all. There
is nothing in the in state or federal law that prohibits players from being
paid or receiving a stipend. If anything, the law may actually be on the side
of the athletes. The aforementioned Sherman Antitrust Act may finally open the
wallets of the NCAA and universities. Title IX would not be a barrier because
all athletes, regardless of sport or gender would be paid a stipend. My
thinking is that if all competitors were given a stipend then the “supply” of
athletes for the non-revenue generating sports would not be affected. The
amount of the stipend could be different for each sport which would covered by
the Javits Amendment to Title IX in which reasonable provisions can be made for
specific sports. The only thing that is preventing players from getting a taste
of the “greens” they're growing is the greed and denial of the NCAA and the
college Presidents. As the growth of
college sports continues I suspect that someone is going to challenge the NCAA
to get something other than tuition and board for the millions they generate. No
one is saying that the players should get rich, but they should not be living
below the poverty line either. Not when they are the engines of a multibillion-dollar
industry.

About Me

Educated in sociology and Pan-African studies, informed by religion, schooled in Africentrism, aware of history, inspired by the arts, pinched by politics, and driven to read more, learn more, study more, love more. I like a good photo, too.